.

How the woman

Seizes your attention

In the center of town in a

Lime green top,

Bronzed,

Exotic skin tone,

.

And how she thrills you when she comes over

And eats what you cooked for her

And talks to you,

With her

Relaxed arms and

Gentle, open palms.

.

You look to her music

For some meaning and it

Dissolves

Under its own

.

Vacuous quest for sex and

She will

Lecherously

Continue

.

To man the center of town,

Will share unfeasible sexual positions on Facebook,

Will post pictures of herself in a bikini,

Posts about coming into the bar and drinking

And having sex with her because you’re her “boyfriend,”

“This could be you,” she says,

A fly gravitating to a pile of shit.

The woman is nothing

Like a rag doll whose existence

You inundate and dominate

Toward procreation,

.

Just look at how she gravitates

To the mean, catastrophic men,

Taking emotional shelter under their primal developments.

.

She feels immense,

Intense physical pain

In copulation and childbirth,

Will shower in any slew of reigning gifts and

.

Will smile a gift of ash at the dissembled horizon,

Take off more clothing to

Light a fire of anger in men,

A fire over which all life is given meaning.

I see your world now

And how

Your sky

Is a canopy of fire and dragons

.

And

So that

Is

.

What you

Give

Back to the world

.

As a natural unfolding

Of the day

Kansas City,

I saw you,

One time,

.

As I climbed a little plateau with

My stretch of I-70 angling to the left

And I LOOKED to the left

To behold the face of the organism

Whose vessels I’d just traversed in auto.

.

You seemed to smile at me

And at the whole country

With a June sunset rubbing your skyline,

To

.

Laugh at

The whimsicality

Of me entering the Western half of the country

Instead of staying and

Entrenching myself in your aura and human portals

And

.

You expressed more to me

Than any person

With his ego,

Time schedule, reticence and disease,

Ever could.

 

The man is in a large SUV

Parked at a red light

In the middle of town.

.

He sees me start to turn right

And inches up forward,

Slowly,

In his car,

Face looking at me and braced

In a coiled state of adversarial vigilance.

.

In his mid-forties and smooth-faced,

He smokes on an e-cigarette,

With non-descript plates,

Seven years too late for the

Explosion of the world.

.

He is not as much the owner of an identity

As

The victim of a condition

That must be treated.

When you get the impression that somebody behind you

Is checking you out,

It’s the gods in heaven

Telling you that somebody is checking you out.

.

It’s not radiation.

You would know.

Don’t thank them.

Live your life.

You don’t owe them a thing.

I’m here today to write about success because I know what it is. Success creeps into the mind of a sweaty, bearded man whose phone just broke. Success lights the eyes of people in Papua New Guinea when the first cool breeze of fall wafts pungently off of the ocean. Success crouches, evaporates, surprises and pounces, lighting a cat’s eyes, while the chosen one tries to remember his PIN number. And you know success, when it finds you. You know it so well that it blinds you and success is dirty and redolent of the noxiously ephemeral disposition of all life on this earth, withering away before your ham-handed, greedy optical ambition. It finds you, like the love of other people, and it lulls you into a narcotic oblivion of its definition.

You try and

That’s the truly heinous act,

.

With your wedding dress

Cut low exposing

The sides of explosive,

Decadent breasts,

.

Or coming up to me in the bar

Looking like

.

The surface of the sun,

Rapaciously inundating my senses

With the horrors of nature and

The dizzying orchard of woman’s beauty.

.

You squeeze my arm on the cook’s line,

Looking at me with slow,

Patient, steady and burning blue eyes,

.

In your Facebook picture

You’ve got your hand

Around your guy’s neck,

Your old guy and

.

I see him in my thoughts as you

Take refuge in your blinding glass case.

It’s the COVID again,

Still,

“Agstill,”

If you will,

.

I’m in Kohl’s in the market for

Literally one t shirt,

.

Find it in the

Form

Of

A Rolling Stones

.

After sifting through

Myriad

Childish shirts of
Ninja turtles and

Superman

.

Which for some

Reason were fitted to adults,

.

Finally

Find it to

Walk clear to the other side

Of the store

.

To checkout and

There

Are

.

Literally 50 people

In line and so

.

I kind of

Catatonically wait in line for five minutes

Knowing full well that I’ll

.

Have moved all of two feet during that time,

To walk the shirt

.

All the

Way back to the other side of the store,

Put it back,

All wrinkly and

.

Make my

Way to the

Exit and leave and all the while

“Kiss from a Rose” by Seal

Was playing on the PA and

For a second I’d almost forgot

That that’s what

The universe was like.

My hometown calls me back and

I have one beer at Corby’s,

Then walk up Colfax toward downtown

And see what’s going on there.

 

A 16 year old black kid is riding by me on his bike,

Calls me a cop for some unknown reason

Despite the fact that I hate cops

And have never had the desire to be one and yells

“With yo’ white ass!”

 

I yell back,

“Watch your language, man!”,

A little bit intimidated,

Calling him “man” and stuff.

 

All over town,

Everywhere is closed

Because of the COVID.

 

The upscale place has their dining room open.

 

I stand outside as a family of like 10 hispanics

Slowly files out,

One after another.

 

I’m nodding at all of them

Because my life is pretty good now.

 

I go in and ask if their

Upstairs bar is open and

It’s a black dude is a protective mask

And professional coat and pants,

 

Apologizing,

And

Giving me the

Exact date,

July 7,

That

 

Their upstairs bar and opening

And I’m thinking,

Sheesh,

 

This fu**ing town is

Still here, isn’t it,

 

And I walk out of the bar on a

Completely fruitless search for

Something to do and

 

I have everything I need as

The bright-eyed Hispanic yells

“Listos?”

And

 

My heart pumps fiery

Blood of Sangria rhythm because

When monkey see,

Monkey do.